Here in Central Maine, Frosty the Snowman loves to bend us over and give it to us, hard, pretty consistently through the Winter months.
Yesterday, he gave us a full glistening fourteen inches. Not bad for a white boy, eh?
A brief voyage outside during the storm revealed that the "snow" was neither fluffy nor soft, but steely and sharp. The wind shoved the jagged little dagger-flakes between the buttons of my jacket, down my shirt collar, up my nose.
The roads were empty but the neighborhood pizzeria remained heroically open; it looked like the last remaining beacon of civilization among the shuttered and dark storefronts. Light spilled from the pizza place's windows onto the blank white expanse where the sidewalk used to be—
—and thank fucking God for snow like this, I thought. On any other day off, I would have felt like a slacker for neglecting laundry, failing to shop for clothes, forgetting to buy groceries. Thanks to the storm, though, a forty foot walk for pizza became an epic Herculean feat.
Given a choice between taking all of Frosty's fourteen inches or facing up to my own workaholic conscience, I prefer bending over.
No comments:
Post a Comment